


Satisfaction Guaranteed

by distractionpie



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Retail, First Meetings, Flirting, Hair Brushing, Hair Washing, Haircuts, M/M, Meet-Cute, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21924553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distractionpie/pseuds/distractionpie
Summary: Haircuts are an indulgence that Jean's got little time for, and when Hitch's pestering persuades him to head to an event at the nearby salon, he's expecting to grab a coupon and go, not wind up putting himself in the hands of a charming stranger who might be just what he needs in more ways than he was expecting.
Relationships: Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein
Comments: 8
Kudos: 47
Collections: JeanMarco Gift Exchange 2019





	Satisfaction Guaranteed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Foxberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxberry/gifts).



> Fair warning, I actually know nothing about hair. Please don't take any advice from this fic, lol.

Jean's been working at the tech counter with Hitch for a while now, which is why he's more bemused than offended when she announces she has good news for him, and it turns out to be about the hair salon three stores down. 

“--their big promotion is about getting picked for the celebrity owner to cut your hair, but the people who don’t get chosen for that get coupon a discounted cut, so I figured you needed to know,” she explains.

Jean takes a deep breath, reminding himself that for as long as they've been working together Hitch's expressions of concern have come out condescending and judgemental, but that doesn't mean she isn't coming from a place of care. 

"Why would a coupon be exciting? I can afford a haircut," he reminds her. The store’s pay isn't GREAT, but, if he wanted to, he could scrape up the cash, though his budget would be more likely to stretch to a trainee cut at the local beauty college than the expensive salon Hitch is talking about.

Hitch's meticulously arched eyebrows slide towards her bangs in a pointed look of scepticism. "Then why haven’t you had one?"

Jean shrugs. He hasn’t really thought about his hair in a while. Between work taking all his time, both at the store and on the freelance jobs that he’s hoping will be the gateway to better work than selling nanny cams to paranoid housewives who don’t realise that having hackable cameras planted through their homes is a far bigger problem than whatever shenanigans they’re hoping the camera will catch, plus most of both pay checks going on the rent for his own place away from his mother, it just hasn’t been a priority. "Why do you even care?"

"I asked first. And I have to be seen with you," Hitch retorts. "The undercut was fine, kind of douchey but so are you, and if you want to grow your hair out properly you could probably make it work, but the current mess? Needs to go asap."

Jean raised a defensive hand to his hair. "Okay, it's got messy, but it's hardly an emergency."

"You have," Hitch says icily, "a _mullet_."

_Ouch_.

His hair has certain got a bit shaggy, and growing out the undercut has left it uneven, but that's a low blow.

"If bad hair is such a problem for you, then how come Marlowe is walking around with that bowl cut. Why not go pester him into this?" 

Hitch sighs. "Marlowe is a hopeless case, I'm resigned to the burden of being hot enough for the both of us," she explains. "You, on the other hand, are more than capable of looking good, you just appear to have given up. Hence me generously arranging a rescue."

“For your eyes?”

“Exactly. I don’t want to look at the mess that’s on your head a moment longer. So go take your lunch break and score a coupon, for everybody’s sake.”

Jean’s not due to go for another hour and hitch doesn’t have the authority to approve changes to the break schedule, she isn’t a manager, but she’s bossy enough that most of the other staff aren’t all to inclined to remind her of that.

“Yeah, I don’t think--”

Slapping a hand down on the counter, Hitch cuts him off. “Look, you’ve been moping long enough. Breaking up sucks, but you aren’t going to get any less single looking like that. And who knows, maybe you’ll do ever better this time, but not if you let yourself go.”

Jean winces. He hasn’t ‘let himself go’ like some loser who can’t deal with his shit. The state of his hair has nothing to do with him being single -- as the cause or a side effect, his last breakup was months ago and it had only been a short relationship, he’s got all sorts of shit going on in his life to keep him busy right now, if his hair is a state it’s not because suffering from some fit of prolonged angst over a cheating asshole. But if that’s the impression he’s giving off then maybe it is time for a change. Anyway, while he doesn’t exactly want to waste his break queuing at the salon so he can be overlooked by some celebrity and given a pity coupon, a freebie is a freebie. And Hitch’s mullet accusation might have been an exaggeration, but he probably should do something about his hair before it gets that bad for real.

“Fine,” he says, throwing his hands up in the air. “But if anyone asks why I clocked out early you better come up with a really good excuse for me."

"Of course," Hitch says. "When don't I give the best cover stories. How many Grandmas do you have left again?" 

Jean pulls his lanyard off, throwing it in her direction. Hitch can come up with way better lies than the old sick grandma line but just to be safe: "One, but I've taken leave for funerals for three already." That had been a foolish slip and Jean's pretty sure even their moron of a supervisor isn't going to buy that he's got lesbian grandmas on _both_ sides of the family.

Hitch smirks. "Alright, I'll be creative," she says in a tone that would be ominous if Jean didn't already have the assurance of their boss being way too lazy to be willing to go through the trouble of replacing them for anything but the direst of infractions -- as proven by the fact they both hadn't been fired long ago.

Heading out the back way so he's not stopped by any customers en-route, he makes his way towards the salon. He’s noticed the place in passing before, it’s a classy looking place with the kind of decor that marks it as out of his price range without being over the top. Today, there’s a line winding outside the door and he cringes. Even for a freebie, that’s quite the wait, it’s enough to make him consider walking to the discount barber at the other end of the mall and just buying a trim, expect his pay check won’t clear until Friday and shelling out even a little extra money between now and then could land him with overdraft fees. So since there’s no way he’s facing Hitch again until he’s sure there will be no more mullet accusations, he joins the line.

It looks like this could take a while, especially if this supposed celebrity really is going to hand pick somebody from the enormous crowd --though Jean suspects it's far more likely that he'll conveniently find the perfect subject within the first few dozen candidates and those at the back of the line with be handed coupons without even coming up for consideration-- so he pulls his phone out, scrolling idly through his emails, flagging the gigs that look worth his time and deleting those job offers that are clearly targeted at those so inexperienced they still think exposure is an acceptable alternative to payment.

He's musing over an offer that sounds good but is probably pushing at the upper limits of his skill, weighing having such an achievement in his portfolio against the risk of failing and ending up with no payment and pissed off client that gives him a bad reference when it’s thoughts are interrupted by a sudden:

“You!”

He glances up, wondering if they've reached the 'take your coupon and fuck off, plebs' part of the event, but the line is as dense as ever and nobody nearby is holding a coupon. Instead they're all staring. At him. Or rather, at him and the man whose just spoke to him. 

“You're perfect...” he breathes. “Come with me... Oh!” Jean is still processing the stranger standing wide-eyed before him as the man glances down the rest of the line. “But I suppose that isn't very fair, is it? I ought to," he waves a hand at the people behind Jean. "But don't go anywhere.”

Jean blinks as the man turns away. Why would he ditch his spot in line when he's wasted so much time waiting and still hasn't got his coupon?

Then he sees the way the faces of the people around him have twisted into something resentful and realises, the coupon is only the consolation prize

And he might have just won the jackpot.

Well, no wonder people are glaring at him.

Jean twists, looking down the line for a second glimpse of the guy who’d spoke to him and watching the way the others react to him confirms Jean’s theory.

He’d figured that most people in line were like him, here for the coupon, but apparently most people here recognise the guy on sight. Which is just kind of weird, even if he is a celebrity. Then again, Jean barely pays attention to real famous people, let alone... what was a celebrity hairdresser anyway? Somebody famous for doing hair, or somebody who did hair for famous people? He could text Hitch and ask her for more details, but that would involve telling her he’d apparently been picked and knowing Hitch she’d take her own break just to come over. Jean might need a haircut, but he’ll never need Hitch’s teasing commentary while he’s getting it.

Honestly, bad enough having all these strangers eyeing him. And at least a few are whispering, and he doubts they’re saying anything nice.

Sure, Jean’s got the prize they apparently wanted, and he can see why they might envy him that, but he's fairly sure this hairdresser calling him perfect is about as far from a compliment as he could get. This event is for the guy to demonstrate his talents, thinking Jean is the ideal subject for that probably translates to thinking he's a mess and therefore the perfect canvas for a dramatic transformation. It stings to think he looks so bad a total stranger agrees he needs a makeover, a far more cutting assessment that Hitch’s biased conclusion that he looks mopey over an ex Jean hadn't even thought of in weeks before she bought him up. But the line isn’t that long, whoever this guy is, he’s not bringing build-a-bear birthday discount levels of queuing out into the car park, thank fuck, and it seems there isn’t anybody more perfect that Jean because the celebrity hairdresser is circling back, alone.

He doesn’t look much like Jean’s mental image of a hairdresser. He usually goes to a barber because it’s cheaper and he’d figured a hairdresser was overkill and imagined only shallow and overly fussy people would be interested in men’s hairdressing. But the guy walking towards him doesn’t seem some posh fashionista type, hell, he’s wearing a plaid shirt. And what sort of celebrity hairdresser has such a severe middle part and curtain bangs? But despite the fact the style should have been a disaster, he’s making it look good. It could be some secret hairstyling talent, or it could be everything else about the way he looks, and damn does he look good, dragging the terrible haircut up. Jean decides to reserve judgement. After all, it’s not like the guy could cut his own hair.

Then their eyes meet, and he beams, like he really was concerned that Jean would ditch at the prospect of a few extra minutes wait.

Though, he’s not wholly misguided since Jean can’t deny a small temptation to ditch since he’d only wanted a coupon and while he doesn’t want to refuse a freebie, the thought of all of these people watching him get his hair cut is more than a little unsettling.

“It has to be you,” the man says, once he’s walked over to Jean again. “You’re…” he waves a hand, although Jean has no idea what the gesture is supposed to mean. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. What’s your name?”

“Uh... Jean...” he says, bemused by the enthusiasm.

“Jean,” the man repeats, nailing the pronunciation instead of flattening it out into ‘John’ like most people do when they first meet him. “Great. Come on in, we can start the demo right away.”

He leads Jean past the line, into the salon where are much smaller crowd of people who are presumably going to watch the demonstration. He hasn’t introduced himself, but then he is the celebrity here, he probably doesn’t think he needs to. Will it offend him that Jean doesn’t recognise him? It would probably be unwise to piss off the guy about to have scissors near his head.

“So, what am I doing for you today?” the stylist asks, “Your current style is very alternative, are you wanting to keep that sort of look or going for something more polished?”

Well, that’s one way of putting things. Nicer than Hitch’s view that’s for sure.

“I don’t have a style in mind,” Jean says, because there’s no point beating around the bush, “I had an undercut for a while, but now it’s just a mess." When he was younger, it had been easy enough to make the time to keep it sharp but working a real job isn’t super compatible with a twenty-minute ten product morning styling routine or monthly cuts to keep the lengths balanced.

“So you want an undercut again?”

Jean shakes his head. “No, it got this way because the undercut was too high maintenance,” he admits. “Longer is probably better, because it will show less if I don’t get it cut regularly, but other than that, do whatever you think is good.”

“I... you’re really giving me free rein?”

Jean shrugs. "You're the expert," he points out. "Just fuck me up." Surely that isn’t so weird, given this is a demonstration of his talents.

“Well, first comes the wash,” the man says. “And I’ll talk you through some ideas.”

As they’re walking over to the sinks, a woman interrupts them. “Are you sure you don’t want a junior to do this part?” she says. “You know most stylists don’t do this themselves.”

The man shakes his head. “The whole point of this event is me doing things personally, right?” he says. “Anyway, I like seeing things through from start to finish.”

“Whatever you say, Marco.”

Marco, huh?

The name suits him. Uncommon but not a ridiculous famous person name. It sounded more interesting that Jack or Tom, but not such a mouthful that a guy would have an issue calling it out to greet him in the street.

Jean shakes his head. Why did he even care about a thing like that?

Behind him, Marco laughs. “Good, get any fidgeting out of the way before we start,” he says, a note of teasing in his voice. “The way you were holding yourself in line proves you know how to hold still, I’ll need you to do that while I’m actually cutting, especially if you want something challenging.”

“Like I said, I’m in your hands,” Jean reminds him, taking a seat by the sinks. It’s weird to be putting so much trust in a stranger, but it’s not like he can’t get another haircut to fix it if things turn out really badly. Anyway, Marco is supposedly famous (or possibly getting paid by famous people) for this and Jean has a strangely good feeling about him.

He settles in the chair and Marco drapes the protective cape over his shoulders and then wraps a towel around his shoulders tucking it in to the edges of the chair. Which is a pretty strange feeling. The last time he was tucked in anywhere, Jean was twelve and on the cusp of shouting at his mum to stop babying him. So why does it feel nice now?

Marco starts the water up, spraying a tiny bit onto the edge of Jean’s head and asking, “That okay?”

It’s water, it’s wet? What more is it supposed to be? “Sure.”

Marco brings the shower head closer, beginning to soak Jean’s hair for real and Jean wrinkles his nose as a run drops of cold water rush down his hair to drip onto his neck.

“Seriously, say if it’s uncomfortable,” Marco insists. “These things are set to a general level, but everybody had their preferences and I can adjust it for you.”

“I mean it’s a little chilly,” Jean admits. “But it’s no big—”

Before he can finish the water temperature is already increasing though, rising to a pleasant warmth as Marco says, “Better?” in a gentler tone than anybody has used with him in a long time. As if it really matters to him that the water temperature is exactly right.

Jean starts to nod, then recalls what Marco said earlier about keeping still and since he’s not sure if it applies here cuts the motion off and says, “Yeah,” instead.

For a few moments Marco works quietly, shifting the shower head around to thoroughly wet Jean’s hair. Then:

“How often do you wash your hair?”

Is that a trick question? Or does Marco think his hair is gross? “Uh... every day,” Jean says, which isn’t strictly true, it’s more like every day that he’s leaving the apartment, but he doesn’t bother if nobody is going to see him.

Marco hums. “You should probably wash it less then, or switch to a gentler shampoo,” he advises. “You’re stripping out all the nutrients.”

Huh. That sounds like his mum’s argument as to why he should eat the skins on potatoes.

But that though is quickly forgotten as Marco begins applying shampoo. His hands are broad enough to encompass Jean’s entire skull, working over his whole head at once as he rubs the shampoo in with firm hands.

Marco’s fingers comb through Jean’s hair as he spreads the suds around, tugging, not hard enough to be painful, but enough to send a shiver down Jean’s spine. Fuck. He’d hadn’t considered how much he liked having his hair played with. It was never an issue at the barbers, where they were quick and minimalist about the process, and his ex had never been into that, he preferred to get to the point, to Jean had forgotten how good it feels.

Then Marco’s thumbs press into the nape of his neck and a low moan escapes his throat.

Marco’s hands still.

“Fuck! I’m sorry,” Jean blurts out. Urgh. It’s not quite heavy-breathing-down-the-phone levels of creepy, but he’s dealt with enough obnoxious customers in his own work to know that moaning is not an okay response to somebody providing a professional service. No matter how amazing that touch had felt.

But Marco just laughs softly. “Don’t worry about it,” he assures Jean, digging his fingers in a little harder. “In fact, if I wasn’t getting that reaction from you I’d be disappointed. You’re holding a lot of tension here you’ll need to release before we go on.”

In his scalp? Are there even muscles there to be tense? And how would that have anything to do with a haircut?

Another press of those strong hands and Jean bites his lip to hold back another groan. Maybe it is normal for Marco and his magic hands, but it’s not normal for Jean and it’s not something he has any interest in exploring in a public place surrounded by onlookers.

Fortunately some combination of his dignity and determination not to be a creep enable him to hold it together as Marco rinses his hair, although he has to resist the urge to squirm when he grabs another towel to lightly dry it. It’s strange being fussed over this like, Jean has never liked having people up in his business and these days most people tend to peg him as not a touchy-feely guy from the outset and stay away, but despite his old habits of pushing people away, the care and intimacy feel nice.

It’s only as they walk back over to the salon chair that Jean remembers their audience and even that doesn’t last long because the moment he’s seated, Marco starts combing his hair and Jean’s focus goes right back to fighting not to be overwhelmed by the careful but firm strokes of the comb.

“You know, when I mentioned staying still, I really just meant don’t move about too much. Not that I’m not impressed. Have you ever done any modelling work?” Marco asks, as he works out a tangle in Jean’s damp hair.

Jean snorts. Either Marco is very out of touch with what normal non-celebrity people do with their lives or he’s telling blatant lies in order to play to Jean’s ego. As a teenager he’d deluded himself with fantasies of being a gorgeous hot-shit lady killer, but he’s old enough now to be realistic about the fact that while he’s in good shape he’s not got the kind of bulk that most people imagine when thinking of a fit guy and, this he does hate to admit, he’s kind of horse-faced. Also, there’s the whole borderline mullet situation, although hopefully Marco is going to turn that around.

“Well I think you should keep it long, especially if you’re looking for something alternative but low-maintenance,” Marco says, “But I’d like to tidy up the edges so that they’re more even and try and shape things around your face a little more, so that your hair is framing not covering it.”

Jean shrugs. “Sounds good. Like I said, you can do whatever you think is best.”

Marco’s hands still. “You trust me that much?”

Jean feels his face heat. He certainly trusts Marco far more that it can be sensible to trust a stranger. But he has gentle hands and honest eyes, when Jean is used to settling for either one or the other.

“Sure,” he says, trying for a cocky smile though he can see his reflection and so he can only hope that Marco sees bemused rather than the hopelessly besotted look he recognises on his own face. He thought he’d got over falling fast and hard for strangers, but apparently while the defences he’s built up work just fine when dealing with his usually type, he’s utterly unprepared for nice.

Jean has a type, and while he can appreciate the aesthetics of Marcos’ soft features, sun-kissed skin, and shoulders so broad you could hold a conference on them, he’s about as far from that type as it's possible to get.

So the fact his heart keeps skipping beats every time Marco catches his eye in the mirror is almost certainly a sign of an oncoming medical emergency.

Marco picks up the scissors then, beginning to cut, and as he reaches around the edges his hand brushes against Jean’s ear and he has to fight another shiver. It’s maddening. Plenty of people have touched his ears, exes and piercers and past barbers and its never felt like that, but one brush of Marco’s fingers is electrifying. 

He bites his lip, thinking hard about every boring and revolting thing that comes to mind because the only thing more embarrassing than being turned on by that would be Marco noticing. Fuck, he'd probably think Jean was some sort of weird ear fetishist.

Thankfully the cape that’s protecting his clothes also helpfully conceals the sudden stirrings that Marco’s touch has caused and a moment later Marco’s hands move on, leaving Jean to contemplate how lame it is that he’s apparently feeling so desperate after just a few months of being single.

It’s not the sex, at least not specifically. Sure, he’d like to be getting laid, but his own hand does the job. No, it’s the other sort of touching that he’s really been starved of these past few months, all the casual gentle affection that Jean has always relied upon romantic partners for but which Marco apparently bestows on practically strangers as easily as breathing, all the while making entertaining conversation. 

Is this a hairdresser thing? Or because it’s a big event? The barbers he’s seen in the past have always been in a hurry, interested in turning about as many paying customers and very little else; plus Jean had figured when he realised he’d be part of the demonstration that he’d be sitting there awkwardly while Marco used him to show techniques to the audience, but it feels like Marco’s full attention is on him and it’s easy to forget there are still other people hanging around, he’s so caught up in their conversation.

His hair is mostly dry by the time Marco has finished cutting it, but he still picks up a dryer to finish it off. There’s no need for Marco to be using his free hand to rub the tension out of Jean’s shoulders as he uses the other to dry though, that’s got nothing do with the state of his hair, but Jean catches his eye in the mirror and instead of asking him what the fuck he’s doing, he just feels himself blush.

“Let me guess,” Marco says, shutting off the dryer. “You’re the kind of guy who sees get a professional haircut as an indulgence and you don’t indulge yourself often.”

Jean raises his hands in joking surrender. “That obvious, am I?” he asks. It’s always seemed like a waste of time and money before, although now he knows what it’s like to have Marco’s hand and attention on him he wishes he could afford to get this treatment more often.

Marco shrugs. “I’m good at noticing that sort of thing. But what made you come?”

“It’s more of a who,” Jean corrects.

Marco’s brow creases, pulling his hand away from Jean’s neck. “Oh?”

“Yeah, Hitch decided I wasn’t looking up to scratch so… if I hadn’t come along she’d have kept prodding at me. Or possible come at me with scissors while I was sleeping.”

“She sounds… intense,” Marco says slowly. “But I’m sure she means well.”

Jean rolls his eyes. “It might also be that there isn’t enough interesting drama in her life right now, so she’s having to fabricate a narrative about my hair being a reflection of my secret inner turmoil over my ex-boyfriend. If anything, it ought to be better except being overdue a cut, since I don’t have to deal with him using up all the hot water and leaving me with cold showers. But I don’t think that’s exciting enough for Hitch, I keep telling her she should just watch soaps.”

Marco bursts out laughing. “I don’t know, cold water is good for certain hair types. But I think that plot is from Tangled.”

“From what?”

“The Disney Rapunzel movie,” Marco explains. When Jean looks blank, he adds, “Seriously? I know it’s not one of the more popular ones, but it was pretty big when it came out.”

Jean shrugs. “I don’t really watch Disney movies.”

“You’re missing out,” Marco says, the grabs one of the many cans of mysterious hair product lying around and spritzes Jean’s head with it. “There, I think we’re done.”

He grabs a mirror, holding it up so Jean can see his head from all angles, and Jean jerks his gaze away from Marco’s reflection, blinking at his own mirror image. His hair looks good, better that it has in a long time, and the limited amount of product Marco has put on it suggests the style is as low maintenance as Jean needs. “Yeah, it’s fine, good,” he fumbles, eyes already drifting back up to Marco. The real verdict will be Hitch’s, but he’s fairly sure she’ll be satisfied with what she sees. And if she’s not, then she can suck it up, because if she can live with Marlowe’s bowl cut then she can certainly deal with any way Jean wants to wear his hair.

Marco smiles, sweeping the cape and towel from Jean’s shoulders and walking him towards the door.

“I… thanks,” Jean stumbles, not sure he’s fully expressed his appreciation. This has been the most well spent lunch break of his life. None of this has felt like a normal retail interaction and it’s strange to consider that Marco will probably forget about him as just another customer as soon as he’s out the door.

“No, thank you,” Marco says. “You’re been an amazing demo subject, especially in trusting me with the style.”

He leans over the counter, grabbing a business card and scribbling a number across the back of it before offering it up.

Jean purses his lips. Marco has done excellent work, and Jean would love the excuse to see him again and he genuinely doesn’t want to be rude, but, “If this is how good of a job you usually do, I doubt my wallet is going to stretch to your rates.”

Marco bites his lip. “Could it stretch to dinner?”

“What?”

“The printed number is for salon stuff,” Marco says. “But the number I just added is my personal one. If you wanted to get together some time. Dinner or… something else?”

“Need to check how the hair holds up after some action?” Jean blurts out, then feels his cheeks heat as he realises that might be pushing whatever this is a bit far. That probably wasn’t the sort of something else he meant.

But Marco grins, slow and easy, as he says, “Oh, I’m sure of that, I make it a point that satisfaction is guaranteed.”

Jean reaches out and takes the card.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”


End file.
